


Staunch

by Transom (ThegoodshipRickyl)



Series: Clash Slash Trash [5]
Category: The Clash
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Crying, Emotional Sex, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThegoodshipRickyl/pseuds/Transom
Summary: Joe always goes to Paul when he needs him, but will certain developments change what they have?





	Staunch

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it is I, with more Clash slash trash that is probably as emotionally complicated and melodramatic as a telenovela. But hey, there's some kissing and a little bit of smut in there, too, so yeah.

He had never written anything like it before. It was shameless, maudlin, desperate. Worst of all, it was completely honest. But it was his big chance to tell him everything that had so far only been communicated through longing looks and lingering touches. He felt like there had been enough such exchanges in the time they had known each other to provide him with the basis for such a confession. The only thing left now was for Mick to hear it. 

 

Joe wanted to be facing him when it happened, so he pulled up a chair in front of Mick, their knees nearly touching. Mick was watching him curiously. The flat was cold and quiet apart from the stentorious ticking of a clock. Joe cleared his throat and produced the paper from his shirt pocket, trying not to make incidental contact with his pounding heart. 

 

Mick had been given lyric sheets before. Typically, though, it was when they were in a studio, or in a pub, or on a tour bus rolling past fields in Nebraska or something, not in Mick’s flat just around midnight, with Mick sat on his bed, Joe practically between his legs. Still, he accepted Joe’s offering with an expression of mild, affectionate exasperation, with Joe chewing at his lip and wishing it would just bleed already. 

 

Mick was a quick reader, so Joe knew when he had finished the opening lines from the raised eyebrow he received from over the top of the page. A couple more verses, and Mick looked even more confused, and, very gently, he asked Joe: 

 

“What is this?” 

 

Joe’s heart hammered, and his palms broke out in nervous sweat. “Keep reading,” he rasped, pointing at the paper with clasped hands. 

 

Mick looked skeptical, but obeyed. His brows began to knit together as his eyes traveled over the page, darting back up to Joe occasionally, as if to study him, before going back to the words. His breathing seemed to slow with concentration, and Joe’s heartbeat did the same. Or, more likely, it was all just time stretching out, and he was clutching onto a rope in some terrible dream, while it tore through his hands and he slid down into a dark, bottomless well. 

 

“Joe,” Mick whispered absently, still reading, chewing on his fingernail with concern. He shook his head as he reached the end, and lowered the paper to his lap. “What _is_ this?” 

 

Joe felt as if he had been swiftly hollowed out, his insides scooped and dumped at Mick’s feet. “It’s…. Well, what do you think of it?” he asked weakly. 

 

Mick regarded him, not unkindly, but with obvious pity. “This… this isn’t for me? Is it, Joe?” 

 

Joe met his eyes bravely. Keeping with his new, perhaps ill-advised ethos of honesty at all cost, he nodded and cleared his throat to speak. “I’ve, er, felt that way. About you. For some time now." 

 

“ _Joe_... Joe, you can’t _possibly_.” 

 

All Joe could do was shrug helplessly; his brain was completely blank, unable to come up with a contingency. “Why not?” He sounded pathetic, but he genuinely could not understand. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Mick tried, but Joe was beginning to shut down, the throbbing in his ears becoming loud enough to drown out everything else. He was paralyzed, glued to his chair, until Mick reached out and touched his knee, and he flinched away violently at the careful contact. 

 

“ _No_ ,” was all he could manage, choked and hoarse. He swallowed hard, and Mick withdrew his hand with a frown. 

 

“Joe, it’s alright. I ain’t mad – “ 

 

“I didn’t mean it,” Joe interrupted, desperate. “It’s stupid, it was just me trying something. We can change it 'round, make it work….” 

 

“No, Joe, that’s not it,” Mick stopped him, voice achingly gentle. He was still watching him, leaning forward, his brow furrowed in concern. 

 

Joe flushed hot. He had to stand up, he had to get out, his skin was burning and his brain felt twisted like a wrung out towel. He put his hands on his trembling knees and made to stand, but Mick circled his fingers around his wrist, staying him. 

 

“Don’t go.” He squeezed carefully, but to Joe, it felt crushing. He ignored Mick and stood anyway; Mick followed, and took Joe by the elbow. “Stay, please. It’s alright.” 

 

Joe shuddered at the feeling of Mick’s hand on him, warm and tight around his arm. He had to get away, find his jacket, shrug it on and put some sort of barrier between them, so he wouldn’t have to feel that heat anymore and ache quite so powerfully. 

 

“It’s late, Joe. You can stay,” Mick kept insisting, though some of the life seemed to have gone out of him. He watched Joe with an intent, searching look, head tilted down slightly to meet his eyes. 

 

When Joe gave him nothing except heart-pounding, stock-still silence, Mick tilted his head towards the door. "Fine. Go.” 

 

Joe glanced down at the floor, then back up at Mick through his lashes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hollow. 

 

Mick stepped closer but Joe couldn’t look at him. He let himself be touched, then pulled into a hug. Mick enveloped him with his body, cradling the back of his head in his hand, and Joe went with it, though he felt white-hot shame at every point where their bodies met. Mick pressed a kiss into his hair, and Joe choked a sob into his shoulder, too weak to push him away. 

 

Mick let him go, and Joe could hardly look at him as he stumbled backwards, fumbled for the door, and wrenched it open. He muttered what might have been a goodbye, but he could hardly be trusted to be sure. 

 

He heard Mick’s door click shut softly behind him, and he quickly put as much distance between himself and the flat as he could before it could collapse around him and suck him in, crush him and everything in sight into nothing. It was a cold, shadowy night, and he tugged his old leather jacket around him tighter. The chill seeped in anyway, soothing away somewhat the prickly mortification that stirred just underneath his skin like clouds of acrid smoke, and dissipating it so that he could take a deep breath and decide where he could go next. 

 

*** 

 

Walking had at least warmed him up somewhat by the time he knocked on Paul’s door, but his legs were tired, his stomach was rumbling, and his mind was distressingly blank. He had stopped at a phone box to make sure Paul was home and could take him in, so the light was already on and glowing warmly for him. He could just hear the muffled chirp of music over the swish and whisper of the sleeping city streets, and he went weak with wanting to be inside. 

 

Intense relief almost caused him to crumple to the sidewalk when Paul opened the door. He was bleary-eyed and rumple-haired, but he looked more concerned than annoyed when he eyed Joe up appraisingly. Joe wondered how much he would be able to tell, if he had sounded strange on the phone or if he looked strange now, standing before him in the gloom. Either way, he felt it best to be honest with Paul from the beginning; after all, honesty had served him in utterly fantastic stead so far, he reasoned wryly. 

 

“I made a mistake tonight.” 

 

Paul regarded him levelly. “You better've killed someone, to be coming round at this hour.” When Joe gave him an unamused look in response to this jibe, he rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “I’ll put the kettle on, and we can talk, yeah?” 

 

Joe followed him inside, and pulled a chair up to his small, cluttered kitchen table. Paul took the other one after he was finished setting up, and he shoved some of the miscellany over to make room for Joe and himself. 

 

“I haven’t got much to eat,” he told Joe, having heard Joe's stomach growl over the lively rockabilly that was springing from the ghetto blaster beside his kitchen sink. “I’m not getting up again until that kettle’s shrieking,” he warned with a good-natured softness as he nibbled on the end of his plastic spoon. 

 

Joe gave him a small smile in return, while spinning a little stray notepad around with his index finger. “’S’alright,” he shrugged. “Couldn’t manage much right now, anyway.” 

 

“I’ve got digestives,” Paul offered quietly with a wry grin, “Dunno why, but I’ve got ‘em. Water biscuits, too. Might've gone stale, though.” 

 

Joe’s lips quirked. “Well, aren’t we posh.” 

 

Paul smirked back. “I’ll get you some.” He reached out to pat Joe’s hand as he stood, letting it linger long enough for Joe’s breath to hitch. The kettle was just beginning to steam, and Joe watched as Paul searched his cabinet for clean cups and a bite to eat. He set their meager table with what he came up with, a pair of chipped, mismatched cups and a packet of biscuits, and then went back to the kettle in the corner to wait a little longer for a whistle. His hip was cocked lazily against the cabinets and one hand was rubbing at the back of his neck. His old white T-shirt had lifted from the waistband of his pants, and a strip of light golden skin showed invitingly for a moment before he lowered his arm again. 

 

The kettle sounded off and Joe swallowed his bite of biscuit, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth had gone. He thought about asking Paul if he had any beer, but decided against it, keenly aware of the cliché of drowning himself in a bottle. 

 

“Ta,” he muttered, as Paul poured his tea and some for himself as well. There was a little pot of sugar on the table, and Paul went to the refrigerator for the milk. 

 

“I’m sorry about all this,” Joe offered, as Paul sat back down heavily, with a stifled yawn. 

 

He waved Joe away. “Don’t be.” He stirred sugar into his cup and helped himself to a biscuit. “Been sort of bored today, anyway.” 

 

Joe made a noise of assent. “Been quiet.” 

 

“Well, not for you, clearly,” Paul pointed out. 

 

Joe grimaced. “Quiet’s not the word for it, no.” He chewed at his lip, and waited for Paul to look up at him again. “Remember what I told you I was going to do?” 

 

Paul’s expression remained even, but he stopped stirring and let his spoon down to click softly against the ceramic. “I do,” he said, a little hesitant. 

 

“It went… sort of sideways.” Joe supplied, needlessly. 

 

Paul settled back into his chair, arms folded. “Was he… upset?” 

 

Joe shrugged. “A little?” Something deep inside shook, as he thought back to it. “Erm, I’m not really sure.” 

 

“But you’re here.” 

 

Joe nodded. He hadn’t felt close to crying until now, the reality of it finally setting in. “I fucked up,” he breathed. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

 

“Joe.” Paul’s soft voice got him to look back up at him, from where he was staring down at the table and picking at the smoke buildup and grime around the edge. When he met Paul’s clear, calm eyes, his chest tightened. 

 

“You did well,” Paul assured him. “It was the right thing.” 

 

Joe shuddered out a breath. He took a tentative sip of his cooling tea, hoping it would steady him somehow. 

 

“You did,” Paul insisted. “I know that’s what you’re worrying about.” 

 

Joe looked away again and mulled it over for a while, holding back his natural instinct to argue against his own defense. Paul didn’t push, allowing Joe to sit in silence and let what little food and warmth there was fill him, restoring him however marginally. In the quiet, he finally decided that he could trust Paul to be right, even if it didn’t feel like it was possible. He reasoned to himself that if he hadn’t wanted to listen to Paul and believe him, he wouldn’t have shown up at his door like some rejected pet. 

 

Suddenly quite tired, Joe sucked down the last of his tea and took it to the sink, offering to take Paul’s as well. He gave both cups a quick rinse and set them out on the tea towel, then heard Paul’s chair scrape over the tiled floor. 

 

“I’m going for a slash,” he announced. “And then _we_ are going to bed.” 

 

Joe followed suit after Paul was finished, and then met him in his bedroom, both of them down to their pants and T-shirts. Paul was fiddling with the radio on the nightstand, turning it down low as Joe padded over on bare, cold feet to what would be his side of the bed for the night. He settled in as Paul sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, long arms reaching to the low ceiling and back arched slightly, muscles playing in full view where his shirt lifted up again. After a series of pops and a satisfied groan, he wormed his way under the blanket with Joe. The bed was small, but Paul didn’t seem to mind getting in close, combining their warmth against the chill of the night. 

 

They had shared like this often in the past, and Joe had no reservations about slipping his arms around Paul and bringing them closer together under the covers. Lying there with his nose brushing Paul’s upper arm, Joe realized just how awake he still was, despite the late hour, his eyes only just beginning to tire. He shifted to lie closer, and pressed his face to the crook of Paul’s shoulder, breathing him in. He smelled faintly of dope and curry, spicy and warm, and his skin was smooth and supple and alive under Joe’s lips where they were pressed to his steady pulse. He reached his arm around to stroke Joe’s back, and kissed him softly on his forehead, nose pushing into his hair. 

 

“Can you sleep?” he asked gently. 

 

“Not really,” Joe admitted. He took a deep breath against Paul’s chest. “I still feel ridiculous.” 

 

He felt Paul’s quiet hum of understanding and shivered when he carded his fingers through his hair. “I think,” he began, lowering his head to speak to Joe more closely, “that you were really brave, actually.” 

 

Joe snorted. “That’s a very kind way of calling me an idiot.” He looked up at Paul and found him right there looking back, his mouth a serious line, and eyes glinting in the low light coming in from the window. He was so close, all around, and Joe felt a startling surge of shame for what he wanted more than anything to do. 

 

“ _Joe_.” Paul seemed to read his mind, but Joe had heard his name said like that once already, and it couldn’t stop him leaning in to press a kiss to the hollow of Paul’s throat. Paul didn’t push him away, so he continued slowly, as if he would be pushed away at any moment. When he went unrebuffed, he let his eyes slide closed and set about covering Paul's neck with kisses, and snuggled closer until they were chest to chest and could match heartbeats. 

 

“Joe,” Paul said again, winding his arms between them to get a few inches of separation. Joe was pulled gently off of his skin with a breathless gasp. 

 

“I just don’t think this is a good idea right now.” Paul’s tone was low and attempting at comfort. 

 

Joe felt himself turn red hot, his skin crawling with embarrassment. He had come to Paul before, and been accepted, always. They had done this countless times, sometimes when they needed to, sometimes just because. The thought of having another good thing taken away from him was enough to make his hair stand on end with fear. 

 

“You too, huh?” he croaked, shoving away from Paul, cold air flooding the vacuum that was created between them. 

 

“No, _Joe_ …. _Fuck_.” Paul groaned and flopped onto his back, pushing the blanket down to his stomach and curling his fists around it. “Didn’t mean it like that.” 

 

“So how is this any different from any other time?” Joe demanded, not proud of how small he sounded. “I need you.” 

 

“For your ego?” 

 

“No!” Joe leaned up onto one arm and looked down at Paul. He pressed a fist to Paul’s chest, then opened his palm to cover his heart. “You think I would use you?” 

 

“Then what is this?” 

 

Joe couldn’t answer. In the silence, Paul leaned up to challenge him, and Joe held his gaze as he came closer. 

 

“If he had said yes, would you be here?” 

 

Joe almost had to look away. “Maybe not tonight,” he admitted. “But, Paul… I would never want to give this up. What we have.” 

 

“And you expected him to be okay with that?” 

 

Joe shrugged. “It could be why he said no. Maybe he knew, and didn’t want to deal with it." The idea was unlikely, but it did make him feel a bit better. “But he would’ve had to, even if… even if he _had_ wanted me. He would’ve had to.” 

 

The steely look that Paul had been watching him with softened as Joe set his jaw, the rejection still fresh and raw. The air between them settled, and Joe felt the pull of his body, though he remained completely still, allowing Paul to search his face. Slowly, Paul reached out a hand to slide it around his neck, and then leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

 

“I don’t know what this is,” he said quietly when he pulled back, gesturing between Joe and himself. “But I do want to keep it, too. I don’t want it to end.” 

 

It was good enough for Joe. He leaned forward to press his forehead to Paul’s, and they did nothing for several moments except remember how they breathed. Finally, Joe tilted his head back to catch Paul’s lips in a fleeting kiss that was only a reiteration of a question he had been asking ever since he turned up at his door. Paul answered by moaning softly when Joe pulled back, so Joe kissed him again, holding it sweetly, his eyes squeezed shut to protect himself. Paul opened up to his insistent mouth and fell back onto the bed, pulling Joe down on top of him. Joe went eagerly, immediately sliding a knee between Paul’s legs. He settled down onto him, fitting his body to his, while Paul’s hands found their way to his sides and squeezed at him carefully. 

 

Joe fought to go slowly, to take his time and show Paul how much he meant it. He kissed him unhurriedly, letting Paul come up to meet him and set the pace. For a while, he was perfectly content with the gear they were in, until Paul’s hands on him eventually became his undoing, turning him on relentlessly. They roved over his back and shoulders, and eventually slipped underneath his T-shirt, the chill of his icy fingers on his hot bare back a startling contrast that made him shudder and moan. 

 

Before long, Paul seemed just as ready and warmed up as Joe was, and carefully, he eased Joe onto his side so that they were lying face to face, with Joe partially underneath. They continued to touch desperately, and their lips met again and again in slow, dragging kisses, each one helping to fill Joe up until he was brimming over. Unconsciously, he slid a leg over Paul’s hip and rocked into him, searching for a response and groaning into Paul’s mouth when he found it, just as hard and eager as he had hoped. He pushed again, grinding a little deeper, and Paul gave an answering moan to go along with the ensuing helpless little rock of his hips. His hands, much warmer now, slid to the small of Joe’s back and pressed him in closer, until they were connected all along the length of their bodies and moving together in earnest. 

 

Joe was so, so ready, and Paul was there for him, warm and agreeable. He drove Joe over the edge with the expertise of practice, knowing when and where he needed every touch. Joe responded gratefully, and came for him when he asked him to, shaking and reverent. And as he lay flat on his back, panting and writhing with the last of it, Paul took his own pleasure grinding on his thigh, finishing with a ragged groan and his hips working into Joe’s to press him into the bed. After, he fell upon Joe and kissed him hungrily until his breathing slowed, and he no longer had to rock away any fading pulses. Joe was happy to let him sink in to his body, accepting of all that he had given, and they lay still and wrung-out until it was past the point for any words. 

 

Cleanup was reluctant but quick, and soon enough they were back under the covers together, clothes eschewed. The chill had already begun to claim Joe’s still-steaming skin, and there was a period of clumsy blanket distribution and limb arrangement before they could get comfortable again. Joe eventually settled behind Paul’s back, his forehead and nose pressed into the top of his knobbly spine, between his shoulder blades. The hair at the nape of his neck was curling slightly with damp, and Joe lifted his head to kiss him there, breathing in the salt and sweat. 

 

“Can you sleep now?” Paul mumbled, peeking over his shoulder at him with a small grin. 

 

Joe blushed and tucked his head into the crook of his neck. “Yes,” he admitted, voice rough. “I think so.” 

 

Paul snuggled back against him, seemingly satisfied. “Good.” He yawned and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Love you, Joe.” 

 

“Love you, too.” 

 

*** 

 

Joe woke up alone, and he had to quickly make sense of where he was and what had happened before he dared to sit up. His bare arms prickled with goose pimples, and he shuddered, but it wasn’t only from the cold; he remembered with a pleasant rolling of his stomach how Paul had touched him and how they had shared his bed. 

 

The pleasantness was soon subsumed dramatically by the shame, violent and roiling, when the memory of what had happened earlier that night floated to the top. Joe groaned and curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at them with the heels of his hands. Blearily, he opened them and took in a long draught of air, then went in search of his clothes. He slipped hastily into his trousers and T-shirt, and was buttoning up just as Paul came back into the room, whistling quietly on his way to the toilet. 

 

“Tea 'n' weed are in the kitchen.” 

 

“Right,” Joe replied quickly, attempting to sort his hair out, a blush heating up his cheeks. He gave up on the hair after a few half-hearted swipes, and decided to shuffle off to the kitchen for breakfast. 

 

When Paul reemerged to join him, Joe was leaning against the sink, warming himself with tea and simply staring, letting the hot honeyed liquid work on smoothing out everything inside. Paul was still shirtless, but had put jeans on, black and just clinging around his hips. He got in close to Joe while reaching for a cup in the cabinet, then smiled down at him, still a bit tired and muzzy. 

 

“Alright?” 

 

Joe nodded shyly, and Paul’s lips twitched. He looked at Joe’s mouth like he couldn’t resist ducking his head for a kiss. Joe, in turn, couldn’t resist opening up to him, deepening it boldly, surprising himself with his own want. Paul tasted of toothpaste, and his lips were warm and wet, as if he had just licked them over. He groaned into Joe’s mouth and Joe went a little weak, barely able to stifle a whimper when he finally pulled away. 

 

“You're nice and eager this morning,” Paul told him, a little bashful and goofy, and Joe grinned down at his tea. 

 

“You look _really_ good,” he croaked, embarrassed as soon as it left his mouth. He glanced up at Paul to see him smirking behind his own cup, and added hastily, “I mean, you always do…. Even in the morning, and no one looks good in the morning. I barely look good at any time, though, so –“ 

 

“Joe.” He was interrupted by Paul, as he stepped in close once again. “You look good, too,” he murmured, serious, as he nuzzled his way down Joe’s temple to his jaw, kissing until he reached his lips and then stopping just short, leaving Joe breathing raggedly. 

 

Resenting this playful teasing, Joe set his tea down and pulled Paul in determinedly. He landed against him with a slight _mmph_ , smirking, before Joe surged up to kiss him, wrapping his arms around his neck. All the contact was beginning to have an effect on his tired body, but Paul's was not responding in quite the same way, and soon his lips began to move against Joe’s rather matter-of-factly. 

 

Joe let the kiss end, and stole a look up at Paul, guiltily curious. Paul kept hold of his arms with a firm grip, his gaze boring holes in him. He searched him, and seemed to find whatever it was that he was looking for, because he backed away slightly, looking worried. 

 

"Something wrong?" 

.

Paul took in a steadying breath. “This has got to stop happening.” 

 

Ice stalled in Joe’s veins. “What?” 

 

“I don’t know what you call this Joe, but it really does…. It feels like I’m being used for something here.” 

 

Joe shivered and just managed to keep his head up. “Well, maybe you are,” he spat in frustration, perhaps more vitriolic than it was meant to be. “Maybe if you could stop being such a prick-tease, then I could stop coming back!” 

 

“I don’t want you to stop!” Paul countered. “I just want you to be honest with me, Joe! Do you think I like always having to be your ego stroker? Maybe I can’t keep giving you what you need, over and over. Maybe no one can!” 

 

Joe started, then wilted. “Yeah, maybe,” he said hollowly, voice dead in his throat. His body felt depleted, weak, as if he had been at sea for so long and had seen the mirage of an island. He could have sunk to the floor if only he had the energy to fall, but instead he stood, numb, as in front of him Paul ran an agitated hand through his hair and muttered curses under his breath, before letting his arms drop to his sides helplessly. 

 

“Shit, Joe, I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t….” 

 

Joe shrugged. “I didn’t either, then. There, now we both don’t mean _nothing_. How’s that for honesty?” 

 

“You _do_ mean something, to _me_!” Paul had grabbed both his arms again and was almost shouting, and Joe reeled back, startled from his stupor. “You can’t keep on like this, Joe, as if nobody fucking loves you! _I_ love you.” He shook him slightly for emphasis. “ _We_ love you. He _loves_ you!” 

 

In the ringing silence that followed, as Paul held him still, Joe found that he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He sputtered embarrassingly, choked on it, but it couldn’t stay inside. Before he could think about it, he was wrapped up tight in Paul’s arms, sobbing into his chest, finally unable to hold himself upright. Paul held on instead; he let Joe's tears wet his bare skin, let Joe make revolting noises and shake and push weakly against his chest. Joe was finally able to spend freely everything that he had been saving, and by the end, he was emptier than when he began. 

 

When everything had finally gone out of him, he found himself with his arms tucked up against Paul’s chest, no fight left. He was dimly aware of Paul’s lips on his temple, shushing and kissing and whispering sweet words. Honey words, for him to hear but not to know. Meaningless, desperate. Calm. 

 

Joe breathed. It shuddered, and Paul's hold relaxed somewhat. Joe waited, then chanced to breathe again, more evenly this time. Overcome, he shook his head against Paul, a small gasp of relief escaping him when he realized he could accomplish the basic task of not falling apart if he let go. 

 

Paul’s hands spread over his back, imbuing him with warmth and strength, and then he was letting go too, stepping away slightly to look down at him. He didn’t have to ask Joe if he was okay, as Joe met his eyes briefly and then butted his forehead into his chest, and then Paul’s fingers were buried in his hair, scratching lightly. He kissed him then, and Joe felt a chill, not unpleasant. 

 

“It can’t mean the same. I know it can’t,” Paul admitted. “Not like it would with him.” 

 

“’S’alright.” Joe wound his arms around Paul’s neck and came out from his hiding place in the crook of his shoulder. “It’s better,” he said hopefully. 

 

He sniffed and nodded, more to convince himself than anything, and Paul cupped his cheek in his hand, tilting his chin up to look at him. 

 

“You don’t have to say that,” he whispered, a wry twist to his lips, not a trace of bitterness. 

 

Joe understood, and he nodded again. Softly, he came up to kiss him, hoping he would be understood as well. 

 

“How was that?” he breathed. 

 

Paul’s smile was cautious, but happy. “Better.” 

 

Joe kissed him, once more again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and hey, don't hate Mick! It's Joe's own fault he's so emotionally constipated, and even Paul can only put up with him to a point! He's lucky Paul is so patient - and it helps that he's pretty lovable, too.
> 
> P.S. - I don't know where Topper is, either. I promise I will post another fic with him in it again, someday.


End file.
